But to Nick it meant new trade, and his battered and scarred face grew into one ebullient smile as McSorley, the engineer, in his jumpers, with begrimed face and hands, and Dan, the dapper Pullman conductor of the Overland Limited, entered the saloon. McSorley was mopping his sweating face. "Say, Dan, who’s the English swells in the private?" he asked, as he looked back at the luxuriously fitted car. "The Earl of Kerhill," Dan answered, as they veered towards the bar. "Been out to the Yellowstone. The old man lets ’em have his private car. Must be the real thing, eh?" McSorley grunted his approval of the noble freight that he was carrying. "Let’s have a drink. What’s yours, Dan?" They reached the solicitous Nick. "What ’ll you have, gents?" "A bottle of beer for me, Mac," Dan answered his companion’s question. Then, with English tips still a pleasant memory, he added, "But this is on me." Nick began opening a bottle of beer, and its foaming contents were soon filling the glasses. As he served he inquired: "What’s up gents? ’Tain’t often the Overland Limited honors Maverick with a call!" "Washout down the road," was McSorley’s laconic reply, as the cool liquid slid down his parched throat. "Staying long?" Nick again asked, with visions of many strangers visiting his bar. Dan was surveying the place with an unsympathetic eye. "Not longer than we can help, you bet," he answered. "Expecting orders to move every minute." But Nick was determined to be affable. "Pity; Maverick’s worth seein’. Who’s in the parlor-car?" "English people—Earl of Kerhill and party," Dan replied. Then he moved down the bar with McSorley, both carrying their half-consumed beer. A Southern cow-puncher, Pete, who had gone from ranch to ranch, finding life too hard at each, leaned back on his stool until he rested against one end of the bar. Through the windows he could see Shorty, one of Jim Carston’s men, coming along in animated conversation with several other men of the Englishman’s ranch. "In my opinion the calm serenity of this here metropolis is about to be tore wide open." A nudge from Punk, the Chinaman, made him go on with the shuffling. "How many, Parson?" Pete queried. The cadaverous face of the Parson, with its highly colored nose, showing the cause of his cloth’s disgrace, turned to him. Frayed and seedy as he was, he bore the imprint of a gentleman. "Dearly beloved brethren, three." Again Punk nudged the others, who were inclined to become too talkative. They began indicating the number of cards desired with their fingers while the conversation continued. Nick leaned over the bar and watched Pete’s hand. "Cash Hawkins is in town!" Pete gave the news as though it were of moment. They all knew what Cash’s visits usually meant. An ominous whistle followed. They all looked at Nick.